


Loves Me Not

by Blue M Hart (ThePreciousHeart)



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Class Differences, F/M, Fish out of Water, Gen, Loneliness, Molly deserved better, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2020-02-10 02:59:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18651529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePreciousHeart/pseuds/Blue%20M%20Hart
Summary: Not long after joining Dutch Van der Linde's gang, Molly O'Shea is having difficulty fitting in.





	Loves Me Not

       It had been several weeks (or perhaps a month, who was counting anymore?) since Molly O’Shea had followed Dutch Van der Linde home. And here she was, still attempting to put names to faces. Dutch had warned her, the instant Molly realized she wanted to stay by his side, that he ran with a large gang. He’d reminded her again several nights later as they rode to his hidden camp, Molly sitting sidesaddle with her arms encircling his chest. “Might take you some time to get acclimated,” Dutch had shouted over the sound of hooves punching the ground. “But there’s no need to worry! They’re the finest bunch I’ve ever known.”

       Despite the warnings, Molly hadn’t expected to find the camp and its people so overwhelming. As she climbed from the horse, Dutch’s hand in hers was a mild distraction from the pungent scent of a simmering stew, the cacophony of heated conversations, and the startling sight of eyes turning towards her. Facing the sensory assault, Molly had suppressed a shiver and swallowed to clear the awful dryness from her throat. _Call it whatever you like, but this is no camp. More like the City of Van der Linde._

       Now Molly stood at the entrance to Dutch’s tent, observing the going’s on with a touch of interest. _Such simple lives they lead._ Watching the gang scuttle and flurry about brought back memories of the groundsmen she had met years ago, on a trip to see her aunt and uncle at their estate. They were the most faded, weathered people she’d ever seen, inexplicably content with the most basic, menial tasks. Just like those groundsmen, the gang members busied themselves with grunt work, never searching for anything better. A sense of pity might have stirred in Molly’s breast, were she not so grateful that she wasn’t one of them.

       Sipping her morning coffee, she scrutinized each face that passed her. The easiest names to remember were Hosea and Arthur, the only gang members to whom Dutch had personally introduced her. Hosea was an old, spindly man with whom Dutch spent most of his time, mapping out progressively bigger schemes. And while the two lost themselves in their endless talk, Arthur moved the group forward, ensuring that everyone else kept their feet planted on the ground. Besides Dutch, he was the only man in camp with whom Molly frequently talked, though their conversations rarely went beyond trivial pleasantries.

       The other men were more difficult to pin down. In her head, Molly had divided them into two groups- the muscles, and the moochers. The muscles were not confined to camp, bringing back wealth and treasures that ranged from fresh hunting kills to cash that they’d robbed. She knew most of their names- Bill, John, Davey, Mac- but they rarely interacted with her. _Too busy,_ she told herself. _Nothing personal._ The moochers, on the other hand, lingered in camp all day, singing or feeling sorry for themselves. They weren’t the type with whom Molly generally bothered to associate, and she wasn’t about to start now.

      As for the women, Molly hadn’t yet taken to any of them, and didn’t plan on doing so. The girls seemed alternately too innocent for their own good, and too world-weary for their respective ages. They laughed raucously, sang along to bawdy songs, and drank to beat the band. Molly supposed she couldn’t blame them for not having learned manners, but that didn’t mean she had to approve. The only girl that stood apart from the rest was Abigail, and only because she tended to a son. Seeing youth thrive in such a place as this gave Molly vain hope for the future. She knew it was far too early to think about such things. Children might not fit into Dutch’s grand plans. But ever since Molly had reached courting age, it hadn’t seemed early at all. Besides, she had plans of her own- perhaps not as grandiose as Dutch’s, but in her eyes, of equal importance.

       Overall… it was different. Not necessarily better than the home Molly had left overseas, where she never had to step outside unless she really wanted to. Certainly more rustic, to put it kindly. But not exactly worse, either. At least she didn’t have to put up with the young fools tripping over themselves to claim her, or the profound sense of frustration that came every time she looked at a ticking clock. She’d been born at the O’Shea estate, had been expected to marry and raise children there, and probably would have died there too had she not begged to come along with Rory on his trip to America. Every square inch of each wall had grown intimately familiar. And now that she lived with no walls, Molly found that she didn’t miss them. Even the roughest and wildest terrain could have been Paradise with Dutch by her side.

        Molly set her cup down and made her way over to the cot that she shared with Dutch. She’d begun a poem the day before about this very subject, but cast it aside once she’d gotten stuck. Perhaps morning’s second sight would unearth new words from her creative consciousness. From beneath the cot, Molly dragged out the journal that Dutch had gifted her and turned its creamy pages, before settling on her latest poem.

       _The way you haunt me cannot be denied_

_And with your poet’s tongue, I feel inspired_

_For you, my love, I’d spend my life outside_

_Confined infinitely to brush and briar_

Molly shook her head, her auburn tresses tickling her cheek. Sonnets had never been her strong suit. She’d experimented with all forms and had yet to settle on one that spoke definitively to her. It was difficult to confine her deepest emotions to such short, strict stanzas. Not even the most talented poetess could put into words the exotic thrill Molly had experienced upon debarking the boat in America, or the leap in her heart when Dutch had woken her in the middle of the night with a series of tossed pebbles, ready to fulfill a hastily-made promise.

       “Be sensible now, Molly,” Rory had sighed when they were still young, daydreaming together in a pasture not far from their home. “You shouldn’t hold out for a fairytale prince, and miss what’s right in front of you.”

       Molly had stuck her tongue out. “All I see in front of me is an annoying older brother who thinks he knows everything now that he’s got a girl.”

 _And look how that turned out._ While Rory had lost his love, Molly had gained one not long after reaching the other side of the Atlantic, while browsing a bookshop in town. The moment she’d laid eyes on Dutch, and heard his voice rumble through her- “Could I help you carry your books, ma’am?”- she’d known that he was something special. So what if her Prince Charming was also a Robin Hood? No human was exempt from complexity. Molly doubted she’d care for Dutch half as much if he were storybook-perfect. He lived and died by his beliefs, and never tried to hide behind a mask- unlike plenty of Molly’s past suitors.

       Thinking of Dutch imbued Molly with a spark of inspiration. Determined, she picked up a pen, entirely ignorant of the shouting match that had just started up outside the tent. The only downside to living with Dutch’s gang was that as a leader, Dutch was always busy. During the day, Molly was often left to her own devices. But on the other hand, it gave her plenty of time to pursue interests that she’d never seemed to have time for at home. With hope, Molly would have her poem finished and ready for Dutch by the end of the day.

*

       Afternoon had just struck when a harsh bark of a voice summoned Molly from her daydreams. “Miss O’Shea!” Lifting her head, Molly caught sight of a tough, wire-strong woman marching her way. _Susan Grimshaw._ Now _that_ was a name she’d be hard-pressed to forget, as its owner had instantly drilled it into her. Molly set her journal down, annoyance warring with boredom. Grimshaw commanded respect from every corner of the camp, but whatever she wanted couldn’t be important enough to intrude on Molly’s privacy.

       “What is it?” Molly asked coolly as Miss Grimshaw halted before her and folded her arms across her chest.

       “I ain’t seen you so much as lift a finger around here since you joined us.” Displeasure saturated Grimshaw’s voice. “It won’t hurt you to do your share like everyone else.”

       A tight feeling overtook Molly’s chest. _Jesus, she’s got to be kidding!_ She’d struggled to make it all the way to America and into Dutch’s arms, and here she was being asked to do _chores_ like some commoner?

       “What about the working girls?” Molly said. “They ought to get their hands dirty.” She felt like adding that it was what they were bred to do, but refrained. Her mum had drilled it into her for years- _No need to offer your opinion unless it’s invited._ Though she wasn’t sure if it was opinion or fact.

       Even without Molly’s harsher critique, Miss Grimshaw didn’t seem impressed. Her mouth hardened into a firm line, and her face drew taut.

       “Perhaps Dutch hasn’t explained it to you. Here in our camp, you’re good for nothing if you don’t pull your weight.”

       _Oh really?_ Molly cast a quick glance to the fire, where an old man with a banjo in hand was offering a drink to her fellow countryman- Sean, she recalled. _Then what are the moochers good for?_ But she held her tongue again before constructing a polite reply.

      “I’m perfectly happy as I am, Miss Grimshaw. I’m not like one of _them._ If Dutch has no problem with me staying here, neither should you.”

       Miss Grimshaw heaved a deep sigh, her arms sliding from their folded position to rest at her sides. “Miss O’Shea, I hear what you’re sayin’ but that line don’t work with me. I know what it’s like to be Dutch’s girl, and let me tell you- his favor is no excuse to loaf around on your ass.” Her back ramrod straight, she loomed over Molly, blotting out the sun’s rays. “Now the other girls are going down to get some washing done, and you’d best join them. Don’t make me tell you twice.”

       A rush of heat seized Molly- _how dare she talk to me like that!-_ but she wrestled it down. If it kept Miss Grimshaw from hounding her, she’d grudgingly take whatever chores there were. “Okay,” she muttered, hoping her resentment was evident, before flinging her journal aside. Miss Grimshaw nodded approvingly, but to Molly’s dismay, didn’t take her leave until Molly had gotten to her feet and taken a few tentative steps out of the tent.

       “The girls are waiting over there.” Grimshaw jerked her head in the direction of the women’s tent. “They’ll show you where to go.”

        Making her way through camp, Molly felt exposed and vulnerable. No one glanced her way, but she could have sworn she caught turned heads out of the corner of her eye. Were they marveling at her beauty, as so many were wont to do? Or were they hiding snickers behind their hands? Molly averted her gaze as best she could, fervently telling herself that it was the former.

       At the women’s tent, three girls lounged- one on the ground beside a mound of dirty clothes, one in a chair with a bucket clasped in hand, and one standing up, her hand on her hip. Molly felt a smidgen of disappointment as she realized that Abigail was missing. _Probably too busy with that boy of hers…_ She tried to recall the girls’ names as she approached. The black girl on the ground had a name that began with a T, Tilly or Tally or something. The brunette in the chair, humming and swinging her bucket, was probably Mary. And the blonde with one arm akimbo and a shrewd, disgruntled stare… Molly didn’t think that they’d been introduced yet.

       “Hello,” said the brunette when Molly stopped before her. She dropped the bucket, uncrossed her legs, and daintily rose, unsmiling but courteous.

       “Hey,” Molly murmured, as the other two continued to stare. She reached to brush a strand of hair behind her ear, and fought with the urge to tug on her necklace. “Miss Grimshaw said you needed some help?”

       “We don’t _need_ help, but we’ll take it,” the blonde said. Her hand slid from her hip and gestured to the laundry on the ground. “Grab a load and follow us down to the creek. It ain’t far.”

       Revulsion crawled through Molly as she stared at the pile. She wasn’t sure if she was to wash only the women’s things, or if the men’s clothing was mixed in too, but either way… she did _not_ want to find out. Swallowing, she forced herself to kneel, taking care not to brush her skirt against the ground.

       “None of the men are coming with us?”

       The blonde shrugged, unconcerned. “Like I said, it ain’t far.”

        “You obviously haven’t seen Karen with a knife in her hand,” the black girl spoke up. Reaching for the clothing pile, amusement flickered in her eyes. “She’ll protect us as well as them boys ever could.”

       “Eyes like a tiger, she’s got,” Mary giggled. The blonde- Karen- rolled her eyes. “Cut it out. It ain’t that dangerous, really. If anything happens, we’ll handle it ourselves.”

       Doubts arose within Molly. _But what if you CAN’T handle it?_ She studied the laundry with a rising distaste. There was no way the girls owned _that_ many dresses. Some of it had to be from the men, all right. _Ugh…_ She almost straightened up, ready to forget the whole thing, but when Tilly fearlessly plunged her hands in, Molly reluctantly steeled herself to do the same. Mary and Karen soon followed suit. With arms full of dirty clothes, the girls took off down a path leading away from camp, and Molly had no choice but to follow them.

       Outside of camp, the sunlight sparkling on the forest floor and the distinctive rustle of overhead leaves awed Molly to the point of forgetting the load she carried. Even after a few months in America, the density of the old-growth forests still took her breath away. It was nothing like city life back home, with paved roads and buildings crowding every space. There, nature was something to be looked at from a distance, not boldly traipsed through. Here, right in the middle of it, America _sang_ with life.

       The girls walked single file, Karen at the front of the line and Molly bringing up the rear. Mary stood right in front of her, her head turning this way and that, as if she were familiarizing herself with to her surroundings. She opened her mouth, and to Molly’s surprise, a song flowed out in a nasal, yet haunting soprano. _“As I went down in the river to pray, studying about them good old ways. Oh, who shall wear that starry crown? Good Lord, show me the way.”_

       “You takin’ us to church, Mary-Beth?” Tilly chuckled from further ahead. _Oh. Mary-Beth… Not Mary._

“I don’t know too many songs about rivers,” Mary-Beth said. “C’mon, Tilly, you know the words.”

       As if they’d planned it, the three girls broke into the chorus all at once. _“Oh, sisters, let’s go down. Let’s go down, c’mon down. Oh, sisters, let’s go down, down in the river to pray.”_ Their voices were strident and blended poorly. Clearly none of them had ever had a music lesson a day in their lives. But the girls’ earnestness stirred something within Molly, a strange, tender yearning that she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

       “What about ‘Oh Shenandoah?’” Tilly said when the chorus was over. “Ain’t that about the Kamassa River?”

      “I told you I don’t know too many.” Mary-Beth twisted her neck around to stare invitingly at Molly. “What about you, Molly? You got any Irish river tunes tucked away in that head of yours?”

       Taken aback at being addressed, Molly shook her head. “No, I… I’m no musician.” She clutched the laundry tight to her chest, hoping they wouldn’t make her sing. She’d done all right in her lessons, so her governess had said, but singing in front of these untrained wenches felt improper.

       “Nor are we,” Karen scoffed. “C’mon. A ballad like that won’t get the blood going. It ain’t even a river we’re off to, anyway.”

       Without further prompting, Karen broke out in song- _“I been a moonshiner for seventeen long years. I spent all my money on whiskey and beer. I’ll got to some hollow and set up my still, and if the whiskey don’t get me I don’t know what will.”_ Again, Tilly and Mary-Beth followed, leaving Molly alone in their lyrical wake. These weren’t the kinds of songs she had learned back home. _Mum would have had me wash my mouth out if she caught me singing about such vices._ Still, she couldn’t help but feel that she was missing out, even though she didn’t want to participate.

       As it turned out, Karen was right about the so-called river. It was little more than a trickling creek at the bottom of a slope, happily contributing to the forest’s natural symphony with cheerful burbling. Molly inched her way down the slope, praying that there was a dry spot to sit on at the bottom. Her skirt’s hem brushed faintly against the ground, setting off an alarm within her. _Please, don’t let the mud sully my best dress…_ Unfortunately, it was already too late for the shoes.

By the time Molly reached the creek, Karen, Tilly, and Mary-Beth had already deposited their laundry piles onto the ground. Relieved, Molly set her laundry down alongside, before gingerly seeking out a place to sit. The ground was sandier than it was muddy, but she was still loath to potentially ruin her dress. Eventually she spotted a tangle of tree roots and settled down, folding her knees beneath her.

       “Sit here all day and we’re gonna need our own clothes washed,” Tilly spoke up, apparently sharing Molly’s thoughts. She held an undershirt in hand, examining its seams and wear.

       “We better clean up good before going back to camp,” Mary-Beth agreed. “Or Miss Grimshaw will have our hides.”

      “Ugh.” Karen ran a hand through the water and let droplets fall from her fingers. “I ain’t sure there’s anything as pleases that woman. God forbid we show up a little disorderly. God forbid we take one little break.”

       “Was she always like this, Tilly?’ Mary-Beth asked as she handed a bar of soap over. Molly stared longingly at it, wishing that the chore was over and done with already.

       “For as long as I known her, yes,” Tilly said. “She been running with Dutch and them even longer than I have. Hell, she probably _started_ the gang.”

       Karen chuckled. “Leave it to ol’ Dutch to take the credit.”

       Unease fluttered through Molly. It sounded like a harmless joke, but still… She wasn’t sure if she liked hearing Karen make wild assumptions about Dutch. Before she could protest, the conversation had shifted like a river running backwards. None of the girls directed their words toward Molly, though a few times she noticed Mary-Beth trying to catch her eye. Molly didn’t take the bait. Joining their talk felt pointless. They were only here to work, not gossip and gab. With resolve hardening in her chest, Molly stretched her arm, trying to reach the pile of clothing without moving from her seat. After a few minutes, she admitted defeat.

      “Could you pass me something to wash?” Molly called.

       None of the girls moved towards the laundry, but Karen beckoned idly. “Come get closer. I promise you ain’t gonna fall in.” Her voice held a lazy, irreverent quality, with no hint of concern. The unease doubled and simmered in Molly’s chest. _Is she mocking me?_

“No thanks,” she replied, forcing her irritation to remain inaudible. “I’m perfectly fine where I am.”

       Suspicion lined the space between Karen’s eyebrows. “Yeah, ‘cause you ain’t working.” She grabbed a garment and flung it towards Molly. “C’mon, let’s get this over with.”

       Molly caught the garment, but as soon as her fingers brushed it she wished she hadn’t. It was one of the women’s underthings that, judging from the smell of it, should have been washed several laundry cycles ago. Disgust rippled through Molly, and she let it tumble into the creek.

       “I’m not touching _that!”_

       “What’s the matter?” Karen retorted. “Is Her Royal Highness above washing clothes?’

       The unease that Molly had clamped down transitioned smoothly into smoldering anger. She sat up straight, her hands turning to fists. “Have you got a problem with me?”

       “I’m just saying.” Karen gestured upwards, her palms to the sky. “You’re here to work, just like the rest of us. This ain’t your precious homeland anymore.”

       The anger rose, coating Molly’s throat. _Like hell it is!_ If Karen only knew the struggle of securing passage to America. If she only understood how miserable it was knowing exactly how one’s life would proceed, and being unable to do anything about it. If she could only feel the way Molly had felt stepping off the boat, or walking the streets for the first time, or when Dutch had spoken to her softly in the bookstore…

      “You’re just jealous.” Molly felt like raising her fist and shaking it to accentuate her words. “You’re jealous that Dutch likes _me_ the best.”

       Karen snorted and picked up a dirty blouse. “Better you than me.”

       Molly stiffened. “And just what it that supposed to mean?”

       “It means you ain’t nothing special, honey.” Karen stared up at Molly as if she were transparent, her eyes cold and glazed. “You’re just the latest in a long line of his own personal whores. Once he gets bored, he’s done with you.”

If Karen had yanked Molly’s hair and hit her in the chest, the effect would have been similar. For a moment Molly was speechless, her mouth agape. _What right does this slatternly fool have to make such claims?_ She felt tears start in her eyes, but defiantly bit them back. She wouldn’t give Karen the satisfaction. Instead, she bristled.

        “Shut up! You’re talking a load of rubbish for someone who’s supposed to be loyal to him!”

       Karen gave a small shrug. “I’m just statin’ the truth.”

       “Come on, Karen,” Mary-Beth intervened. She placed her hand on Karen’s forearm, but Karen kept staring bluntly at Molly, who felt her cheeks redden under her scrutiny.

      Despite her humiliation, Molly tried to sound threatening. “Wait ‘til Dutch hears about this.”

       Tossing her curls back, Karen snorted again. “Sure. I’m shakin’ in my boots.”

       “Come _on.”_ Tilly spoke this time, tugging at Karen’s shoulder. “That’s enough, now.” Her dark eyes settled on Molly with an indescribable mix of regret and apprehension. “It’s okay, Molly. Karen ain’t gonna bite you.” She gestured to a clear spot beside her, her movements inviting but her face painted with uncertainty. “Come and join us.”

       “I…” Earlier, Molly might have warmed to Tilly’s kindness, but now she felt numb. _It’s going to take a lot more than that to make up for what your FRIEND has said._ She stood up, just barely avoiding a misstep into the creek. “I wouldn’t join you if my life depended on it!”

       Without waiting for a reaction, Molly turned and began marching up the slope. She took small comfort in the fact that her hands were now free to hold her skirt up. But greater than the comfort was the swirling sorrow seeping into her, filling up the cracks that her anger had left behind.

       _This is the thanks I get for joining Dutch’s gang?_

Even as Molly reached the outskirts of camp, she swore she could still hear cruel, heartless laughter trailing behind her on the breeze.

*

       As the sun began its slow descent below the horizon, Molly sat at the edge of her cot, waiting for something that had no hope of arriving. She felt restless, and yet couldn’t imagine moving from her spot. Through her head, echoes of conversation chased themselves in an endless cycle. _You ain’t nothing special… long line of personal whores… once he gets bored, he’s done with you…_

A hopeless cry arose inside Molly. _Why would she tell such lies?_

_Unless they aren’t lies at all…_

But she couldn’t bear to entertain the thought for even a second. Dutch wasn’t the kind of man to carelessly discard his women. He could have picked up a regular working girl from the town brothel if that’s what he wanted- but instead, he had chosen Molly. He’d taken the time and effort to successfully woo her- first stealing the book she had wanted, then stealing a kiss, and finally stealing away Molly herself. How was offering to share his life with Molly a sign that Dutch didn’t care for her? _He could have had any woman in the world, but he wanted me. Me! The well-bred Irish girl. Not some cheap, worthless slut with no appreciation for the finer things in life. He wanted ME._

Yet the more Molly thought about it, the more doubts filled her. Up until now, she’d accepted that Dutch was a busy man, and contented herself with the evenings they spent in privacy. But when she considered it… how was her life now any different from the humdrum she’d fled from across the water? _Still nothing to do, just a little smellier. And nastier. And rougher._ And now, thanks to Karen, she had a pretty good idea of how the gang felt about her being Dutch’s girl. She longed to wrap her arms around Dutch and drag him into the tent, away from uncaring eyes, but she knew that wouldn’t help her case. _They think I’m a love-blinded idiot. They don’t understand…_

       Reaching beneath the bed, Molly drew out her journal and turned to the page where she’d come close to finishing her sonnet. However, the creative well had run dry. Merely lifting a pen felt wearisome. Rather than try to force the spring to flow again, Molly produced her compact mirror and gazed into its depths. Living out in the open was doing no wonders for her skin. Her fingers skimmed her cheeks, then her forehead. Was it really possible for Dutch to grow bored of her? Where would she end up if she woke one morning to find that her looks no longer stirred Dutch’s interest?

       A rousing song jolted Molly’s attention from her reflection. _“Brian O’Lynn had no breeches to wear, so he borrowed a sheepskin to make him a pair. With the fleshy side out and the woolly side in: ‘They’ll be pleasant and cool!’ says Brian O’Lynn!”_ Molly didn’t need to look to know that Sean was the one singing. His thick accent, and the song itself, gave him away. Once Molly had settled into camp and her name was spread about, Sean had swaggered up with the same song on his lips. _“Molly O’Shea had no breeches to wear…”_ The dubious pass had left Molly unimpressed. _Thought I left losers like him behind in Ireland._

       As the song reached its jaunty chorus, several more voices joined in. Molly felt like standing up and telling them to be quiet, but Dutch had told her not to disrupt the nightly singalongs. “It’s good for the boys to blow off some steam.” So she remained rooted in place, mirror in hand, the weight of her anxious questioning holding her down. _Where is Dutch??_ Maybe Rory had been right when he warned her not to think anything more of the handsome man from the bookstore, who had bestowed a gift upon her and told her not to ask how he’d paid for it. At the time, she’d been resistant and wary of Rory’s advice. She hadn’t come to America just to reestablish the same monotonous life she’d left back home. Leaving without saying goodbye to Rory had been difficult, but Molly considered him a stumbling block that was necessary to push past.  But… what if he’d had a point? Was it right for Molly to place her full trust in a man she’d only met a handful of times, enough that she’d leapt at the chance to join his band of outlaws without considering the consequences?

       Just as Molly’s thoughts were sinking to a feverish depth, she spotted a figure out of the corner of her eye approaching the tent. Immediately a soothing wave washed over her, momentarily quelling her nerves. She put her mirror away and sat up straight as Dutch sauntered into the tent, his dark eyes twinkling.

       “Hello, Dutch.”

        Dutch dipped his head. “Miss O’Shea.”

        “How are you?” In private hours, Dutch didn’t like excessive conversation, which normally suited Molly just fine, as she generally wasn’t much of a talker. But now, Molly felt as though heart would burst were she to stay quiet. She longed to tell Dutch of how Miss Grimshaw had put her to work despite her lack of inclination to do so, of the girls’ unkind and irreverent talk by the creek, of the troubles that had set up camp in her head ever since that afternoon. She was desperate for Dutch’s reassurance that the girls knew nothing, and that Molly had no reason to worry.

       “Just fine, my dear,” Dutch answered. With a contented sigh, he heaved himself down on the cot beside Molly and reached into his jacket for his pipe. “Just fine. Yourself?” He lit the pipe and stared inquisitively at Molly, light dancing in his eyes and his lips curled in vague amusement. “I heard Miss Grimshaw put you to work today.”

       Feeling Dutch’s eyes upon her was too overwhelming. Molly glanced down at her hands gently folded in her lap and marveled at their stillness. They were idle, poised to do nothing but wield a pen and fill the hand of a loved one. _Just as it should be._ Who cared what Grimshaw wanted from her? She hadn’t been set on this earth to launder clothes and participate in distasteful conversations that went nowhere.

       “She’d be right about that.” Molly reached up to brush aside a strand of hair. “We washed laundry.”

       “That’s wonderful.” Casually, Dutch laid his free hand close to Molly’s, his fingertips stroking her smooth skin and his rings cold against her flesh. She took a deep breath, summoning the courage to meet Dutch’s eyes again.

       “When we were at the creek- someone said-”

       But Molly’s resolve quickly faltered. No matter how her feelings had been hurt, she wasn’t about to tattle on Karen. And Dutch would be disappointed if he heard that she had bought into a vicious rumor. She didn’t want to see the same eyes that held her in thrall grow dull with hurt. _I trusted you,_ she envisioned his admonishment. _I charmed you and brought you into camp, and now hear you sit, doubting me?_

“Is something wrong, Molly?” Dutch asked, after Molly had paused for a second too long. Quickly, she shook her head.

       “Never mind. Just… Sometimes I feel like I don’t belong here.” The confession only slightly surprised Molly. She wasn’t anything like those impudent girls, and had no place among the rough-edged, rowdy men. If it wasn’t for Dutch, Molly couldn’t imagine she would ever choose to live like this.

        Dutch puffed on his pipe, before lowering it to his lap. His eyes bore into Molly, so inviting and yet so intimidating. “None of us do, my dear.” Dutch patted Molly’s hand. “And that’s the beauty of it. By sticking together, we’ve made the most of a world that’s done its damnedest to drive us away.” His voice seemed to soar and echo around the tent, though Molly knew that was her imagination running wild. _Pity Dutch isn’t a churchgoing man. He could easily lead a congregation._ Her shoulders slowly relaxed, Dutch’s spirited words calming her soul.

       “Now, cheer up.” Dutch withdrew his hand, but the raw passion Molly had glimpsed in his eyes remained. “We can’t have a girl as beautiful as you moping about. How about some music?” He rose without prompting and went to the phonograph while Molly’s nerves transitioned into pleasant anticipation. Music in the evening usually meant only one thing.

       “Isn’t it a bit early? I haven’t had my supper yet.”

        “Perfect,” Dutch said, while shuffling through several records. “Let’s work up an appetite.” Settling on a choice, he set the record on the phonograph and brought the needle to its grooves. After Dutch turned the crank, a strong soprano voice poured out of the phonograph and into Molly’s ears.

       _Batti, batti, o bel Masetto_

_La tua povera Zerlina_

_Staro qui come agnellina_

_Le tue botte ad aspettar_

“If music be the food of love, play on,” Dutch murmured, his voice deep and so soft that Molly might have missed it had she not been staring directly at him. She rose to her feet and came to him, but he turned aside before she could put her arms around him. With a subtle flourish, Dutch drew the tent’s curtain up, a visual signal that anyone who wanted his attention would have to wait a while. Finally, he returned to Molly’s side, lacing his fingers around her lower back and pulling her close. Molly inhaled Dutch’s heady, musky scent, her head spinning. She reached for the first button on his waistcoat.

        _Batti, batti_

_La tua Zerlina_

_Staro qui, staro qui_

_Le tue botte ad aspettar._

*

       Nighttime spread stars across the sky’s black backdrop. Lying beside Dutch in the comfort of his tent, Molly fell into an unshakeable dream. With her skirt billowing about her in descent, she eventually came to rest in a soft green meadow. Small white daisies sprung up beneath her hands. With every single blossom she picked, three more appeared in its place. Her arms full of the earth’s endless supply, Molly began to pluck each petal, one by one, reciting the words of a childhood game as she did so.

       _Love me… loves me not… loves me… loves me not… loves me… loves me not… loves me…_

**Author's Note:**

> Songs quoted in this fic:
> 
> ["Down in the River to Pray"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zSif77IVQdY) (couldn't resist including it)  
> ["Moonshiner"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ULdsZEH2HK0) (fun fact: this has similar lyrics to "Rye Whiskey" which is featured in the game)  
> ["Brian O'Lynn"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=joHHwjFxTcI) (I can absolutely hear this in Sean's voice)  
> ["Batti, batti, o bel Masetto"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Isaj6kVb9Ww) from the opera Don Giovanni (one of my favorite soprano arias)
> 
> This fic was originally going to be longer and was going to give Molly the happy ending she deserves, but I didn't have the energy to properly pursue that idea. Still... I love Molly.


End file.
